Kindred Spirits
by CaptainHooksGirl
Summary: He'd been gone for six years. Six years, six months, and six days to be exact. He'd thought of her every day. But he was five years too late. He hadn't been expecting her death. And he certainly had been expecting her to have a son. SyFy's Neverland.


**Author's Note: Well, it's summertime, and you know what that means - more fanfic! Yay! :D Right now I currently have several stories in mind, including a full-length _Neverland_ fic focusing on Peter & Jimmy's relationship after Wendy's story takes place as well as a full-length _Peter Pan_ (2003) story that is Hook/Wendy central so be sure to keep your eyes open for them later in the summer! :) In the mean time, I hope you enjoy this little one-shot. I worked really hard on it, and I'm pretty pleased with how it turned out. Please review if you get the chance, and have a great summer! :D**

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Peter Pan _or SyFy's _Neverland_.**

**~CaptainHooksGirl~**

**Kindred Spirits**

It was a day like any other in London—cool and misty and gray. Everything about the city was gray. Businessmen dressed in their starched gray suits hustled and bustled to work down the gray streets to work in the buildings stained gray from the smoke of industrial progress which billowed into the perpetually slate gray sky—though whether it was from the smoke itself or from the ever-present clouds was difficult to say. A light drizzle was falling—not so much that you would need an umbrella, just enough to make an outing suitably miserable. It was the sort of day that either made one rather sleepy or rather depressed. Jimmy fell into the latter category.

It had been a little over six months since he'd returned to London. Six months and six days, to be exact. That was, of course, after spending nearly six _years_ in hiding, running from the London police and a guilty conscience. Jimmy smiled bitterly at the irony of the situation. Today was certainly not looking very promising.

He removed a slip of paper from the pocket of his waistcoat, crisp and yellowed with age and exposure to the repeatedly damp conditions of whatever clothes he happened to be wearing when it rained—which was every day. Carefully, he unfolded it, glancing down at the address. The black ink was smeared a bit, but he could still make out the letters. He ran his fingers over the page reverently. It was written on the back of the last of many love letters she'd written to him. It was the only time he'd heard from her in the time he was away settling his late father's debts, the very last correspondence he'd ever received from her before _he_ had shown up. And it was the only thing he had left of her save for the overwhelming regret for one unforgivable moment of blind, drunken rage. He had never quite forgiven himself for it, and if he was being perfectly honest, he didn't really expect her to, either. But at the very least, he owed her a proper apology and a formal goodbye. At the very least, she deserved an explanation.

He sighed and slipped the piece of paper back into his pocket. Ever since he'd been back in London, he'd been trying to track her down, but she must have changed addresses at least a dozen times, and every time he thought he'd finally found her, he'd run into another dead end. Nine chances out of ten said today wouldn't be any different. Of course, there was always a chance that the odds would be in his favor…but for Jimmy, they rarely were.

The large building in front of him more closely resembled a prison than a place of employment, its faded brick walls towering over the courtyards and the streets below like an impenetrable row of soldiers glaring at any inmates who even thought about escaping. Outside those walls, all appeared to be well and good, but inside it was a living hell. Jimmy had spent his fair share of time in the workhouses to know. Running a hand over his face, he sighed again. If Jenny had been forced to live in this accursed place, he would never forgive himself. Hesitantly, he stepped up to the old oaken door and knocked.

The middle-aged man who opened the door did so with such rapidity that Jimmy fairly leapt back in surprise, stepping in a rather large puddle that went up over his shoe and splashed what he could only hope was water on his new trousers. He cursed under his breath.

The man at the door frowned, his thick salt-and-pepper mustache twitching in obvious disdain. "No matter. You won't be wearing them for long here anyway—uniform standard, you know. Well, come, come! We don't have all day! Time is money, you know—and you're wasting it! Forms are inside to your left. Clothes bins and showers are on the right."

Jimmy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I didn't come here for a job. I'm looking for someone."

The man suddenly became wary. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "You're not one of those government inspectors, are you?"

Hook snorted. "No. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I have no use for the authorities and very little use for you if you are not willing to cooperate."

The man shifted uncomfortably under his intense gaze, and Jimmy smiled internally. This man had probably spent a good portion of his life intimidating the countless poor souls who found themselves on the streets with nowhere to go but the workhouses. But Jimmy had played this game before, and he knew all the rules. It was high time that someone put this man back into his place and reminded him that he was, in fact, human like everyone else.

"I'm looking for a Miss Jennifer—" He paused for a moment before correcting himself. "A _Mrs_. Jennifer Collins. I was told she works for you."

Having regained his composure, the man resumed a more authoritative posture. "Sir, we have _hundreds_ of women working here. I can't be expected to keep track of all of them! _If _Mrs. Collins is indeed at our facility, her name will be listed within our files. Unfortunately, the secretary is out for the day. Come back tomorrow, and—"

Jimmy grabbed the man by his coat. "I have been waiting for over six _years_ to find this woman, and all you can tell me is, 'Come back tomorrow'?"

"B-but the secretary—"

"Is not here. Yes, I know. But you don't appear to have anything better to do, so get in there and start looking!"

"But that could take hours!" the man protested.

Jimmy released his grip. "Then you'd best get started."

The man haughtily brushed the wrinkles from his suit before indicating for Jimmy to follow, which he did with a slight hesitation. Jimmy knew all too well that many who entered such a place never came out. He had seen the horrible working conditions firsthand and had no desire to relive that part of his life again.

As they reached the end of the hall, they took a sharp left before arriving at a small room at the far end of the corridor. The words "Check-In" were painted in bold red letters above the glass pane that separated the secretary's desk and filing drawers from any rowdy inmates. A short counter protruding out from beneath the glass held a stack of papers which Jimmy assumed to be work admission forms. Jimmy watched as his escort removed a set of keys from his pocket, mumbling under his breath as he searched for the right key to open the door to the secretary's office.

At long last, the door swung open, and Jimmy found himself immersed in a room full of papers, files, and records as they stepped inside. Whoever the secretary was, Jimmy noted, was not very organized. His heart sank. It wouldn't hours—it would take _days_ to find anything in this mess! Surprisingly, his counterpart seemed to find a method in the madness and immediately headed over to a rather unsteady-looking stack in the corner, which he began searching though. Jimmy reached for a nearby stack.

"Don't touch those!"

His hand froze.

"They've all been alphabetized, and I won't have some street urchin searching for his mistress ruining their order!"

Jimmy's temper got the best of him, and in an instant, he had the man pinned against the wall. "You will NOT speak ill of her!"

The man looked startled but for a moment before his eyes again hardened. "Might I remind you, sir, that you are the guest in this facility? I could have you thrown out for harassment, and then—if the woman you are looking for _is_ here—you would never find her. I don't _have_ to help you at all, you know!"

Despite the man's rather discourteous disposition, Jimmy realized, begrudgingly, that he was right. Reluctantly, he released his grip and returned to his original position in the doorway, leaning against the frame and crossing his arms over his chest all the while glaring daggers at the man across the room. For the next half-hour he remained that way, quietly brooding, with nothing but the sound of shuffling papers and opening drawers to break the silence. At long last, he sighed, rubbing his temples.

"You know, this would go a lot faster if BOTH of us were looking."

The man seemed not to have heard him and continued to sift through the papers in the mile-high stack in front of him. He frowned. "Who did you say you were looking for again, Mr. …?"

"Jimmy. My name is Jimmy. That's all you need to know." He'd learned a long time ago never to give away any more information than was necessary. The last thing he needed now was another bobby on his trail!

His companion quirked an eyebrow but said nothing. "I see. Well, _Jimmy_, I'm afraid you're too late. Mrs. Jennifer Collins no longer works here."

Jimmy sighed again. _Just my luck! I should have known she wouldn't be here._ "Well, can you tell me where I could find her? Perhaps she gave a reason for leaving…another job, perhaps?"

The man shook his head. "The only place you're going to find _her_ is six feet underground!"

Jimmy staggered, the doorframe suddenly seeming insufficient to support his weight. All the color had drained from his face. "What?"

For the first time all morning, the man looked genuinely remorseful. "She...well…expired."

"How?" he whispered hoarsely.

The man glanced down at the form, adjusting his spectacles. "I'm afraid it doesn't say how—only that she died June 19, 1891—just a few months after her arrival." [1]

Jimmy sank to the floor, his back against the wall the only thing preventing him from an outright swoon. He suddenly felt sick. Jimmy closed his eyes. "1891," he whispered. "Five years ago."

Five years of running from his past. Five years of regret. Five years of hoping for forgiveness when the only thing that kept him going was the thought of seeing her again. Four years and six months before he'd even begun looking. And all this time, he'd been searching for memory, a ghost. It was five years he could never take back, and it was five years too late. He bowed his head.

Jimmy was not a crier, but the sudden leap of his shoulders was undeniably a sob, even if it was silent.[2]

The man bit his lip, suddenly uncomfortable with the prospect of having an emotionally unhinged man of questionable background sitting in the floor of the secretary's office. "It does say that she had a son who came along with her…" He squinted at the smeared writing on the page. "Peter."

On second thought, perhaps mentioning a son to the obviously troubled man on the floor was not the best way to get him to calm down. In fact, it could have quite the opposite effect…And, quite frankly, even if it didn't, the middle-aged gentleman was not entirely certain that any sane adult would place a child in the care of a man who could go from threatening to sullen to the verge of tears in the span of an hour.

Jimmy raised his head. "A son?" he whispered. _Could it be…?_ "How old is he?"

The man looked back at the file. "It says he was almost a year old when she arrived. That would put him at about…six years old now."

Jimmy nodded. It was highly unlikely that the child was his, given the timing, but… "I want to see the boy."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jimmy knew that workhouse life was tough—breaking stones and crushing bones for fertilizer were monotonous tasks that left the body sore and mind numb. He remembered all too well the long, back-breaking hours of work, body slick with sweat, arms burning with exertion, nearly choking on the clouds of dust that filtered through the air and filled the lungs with painful shards of rock. Cold gruel and a bed stuffed with straw had done little to ease the gnawing hunger and aching muscles, but at least he'd had food in his belly and roof over his head. The women and children had easier work, of course, but it was just as pointless. Though "picking oakum" sounded rather productive, it was really just a fancy of way of saying "picking rope apart into as many tiny strands as possible." He'd never seen it in practice, mind you, as they'd all been segregated by age and sex, but he knew the consequences—bleeding fingers, squinty eyes, and the complete and utter hopelessness that came with living in the darkened corridors of the workhouse.

As they entered the children's wing, Jimmy became increasingly uneasy. He himself had grown up in relative nobility—and would have remained so if not for his father's habitual gambling and his unruly temper—but these children had absolutely nothing. Even the shirts on their backs were government property and, for all intents and purposes, they were too. Most were orphans or the illegitimate children of single women who could not afford to raise them and had no hope of ever escaping the workhouse life. He winced. Regardless of child's legitimacy, that Jenny had become a single mother was undoubtedly _his _fault…and that made him at least indirectly responsible for her death, as well. And for that, he hated himself more than he'd ever hated her late husband.

They stopped a few feet in front of the door to the mess hall. It was open, and through the doorway Jimmy could see hundreds of young boys and girls scrambling to get whatever mush the cook was serving. The oldest ones looked to be about fourteen while some of the youngest were barely more than infants.

The man who had been serving as Jimmy's escort was about to make an announcement for a certain "Peter Collins" to please stand up when Jimmy's eyes alighted on two figures in the far right corner. One was a rather large, heavyset man with a tattered gray suit whom Jimmy assumed to be the headmaster. His dark, bushy eyebrows contrasted almost comically with his shiny, nearly bald head, and it was all Jimmy could do not to crack a smile. The other was a young boy not more than seven who was apparently being given a rather lengthy lecture over some misdemeanor. He didn't think much of it until the headmaster grabbed the child by the ear…and the boy turned around.

Jimmy felt as though he'd been hit in the stomach with a sack of bricks. The hair was the wrong color, the eyes were too dark—but everything else about the boy was _hers_. The dimples in his cheeks, the shape of his chin, the mischievous sparkle in his eyes—that was all her. Having seen the child for himself, he could say with disappointed certainty that the boy was definitely _not_ his, but he was every bit of Jenny's son. And for the second time that day, Jimmy had to fight desperately for the control of his emotions.

"That's him, isn't it?" he croaked.

The headmaster had a rather large rod in his hand. He raised it over the boy's back.

"Well, I couldn't be sure," the man beside him replied. "I'm afraid I don't know the children by name, but if you'd like we could—"

Before the man had the chance to finish, Jimmy was over the table, across the room, and at the boy's side. He caught the headmaster's arm mid-strike. Two dark, bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise, then lowered angrily.

"Who, sir, are you? Are you aware that you are currently breaking several workhouse rules and that I could have you arrested? I suggest you release me before I call security."

For a brief second, Jimmy considered saying that he was the child's father but thought better of it. "Who I am is none of your concern. I do not work for you, and therefore, your rules do not apply to me. However, the last I checked hunger is not a crime."

He released the man's arm.

The headmaster glared. "No, but _stealing_ is. Caught the little bugger taking an extra portion! Now, if you don't mind…" He raised the rod again.

Jimmy grabbed a broom and blocked the blow with the handle. "Now you have one, and I have one."

The man released his grip on Peter, who quickly scurried away, shoving the stolen hunk of bread in his shirt pocket, and attempted to disarm his opponent of his "sword."

Jimmy smirked, easily fending off the blows. This man had no idea who he was fighting. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

The headmaster's face grew red. "SECURITY!"

"No! Wait!"

Jimmy looked up, surprised to see the man who'd been his guide running to his aid.

"He's with me."

The headmaster lowered his "weapon" and frowned at the little man who had dared to intervene. "Simmons, this is a workhouse, not a tourist attraction! Why did you even let him in?"

"He was looking for someone, sir, and I thought…" he trailed off.

"Yes, you _thought_. That's the problem. It's _my_ job to do the thinking and _your_ job to do as I tell you. Now get him out of here."

Simmons lowered his eyes. "Yes, sir."

"Wait." Jimmy pulled a few coins out of his pocket and held them out to the headmaster. "Let the boy keep his lunch. This should be enough to cover it."

The headmaster glared but accepted the coins. "What's it you?"

Jimmy set his jaw hard and resisted the urge to punch the man in the face. "Just see to it that he's taken care of."

As they turned to leave, the man who Jimmy now knew was called "Simmons" frowned. He'd honestly hoped that Jimmy would take the boy out of this wretched place. The man had seemed so protective of the child that he'd thought for certain he would have done more than pay for the boy's lunch. He simply could not fathom why this man—who obviously cared for the child—had not taken him in. But then he looked up.

Jimmy was staring back over his shoulder at the child, and for a moment, their eyes met. And Jimmy didn't know whether to run toward the boy or run out the door as fast as possible, for as much as he wanted to take the child in, he knew that he could never live with that innocent face—her face—staring back at him every day. The guilt was more than he could handle and sooner or later, he feared, he'd come to resent the child. And hating anything that was _hers_ was something he couldn't bear to think about.

Hours after exiting the workhouse, Jimmy was still pacing alongside the brick wall. He had been searching for Jenny's whereabouts for months, and today, he supposed, he had found her…sort of. For years he had thought of nothing but her—her bouncing red curls, her dazzling blue eyes, her soft pink lips. He had always known that their reunion would not be a happy one. If she knew of his treacherous actions—and he had a feeling that she did—he'd likely be greeted with slap and a door slammed in his face—assuming, of course, that she didn't call the police first. But he would have gladly gone with them—would have gotten down on his knees and begged her for forgiveness—if only to see her face again. In all the ups and downs of his life, she had been the one good thing, the one thing that kept him grounded, kept him sane. And life without her had been a living hell.

Why she'd married someone else while he was gone he'd never understand. Perhaps she'd simply grown tired of waiting…But whatever the reason, he knew he'd lost any and all chances of getting her back the day he so unceremoniously _removed_ her husband from her life. Divorce was uncommon, but he might have stood a chance if he had waited, if he had apologized for whatever went wrong in their relationship…even if he wasn't quite sure what that was. But no apology could erase what he'd done. He had blood on his hands—blood of an innocent man—and now _her_ blood too. He shuddered at the thought.

And what of the child? Had he made the right decision, he wondered? What would become of the boy who was the last living piece of the woman he loved? [3]

As he was pondering these things, a sudden commotion from the other side of the wall caught his attention. He couldn't see what was going on, of course, but from the sound of it, someone was escaping. He looked up just in time to see a familiar pair of small feet running in his direction across the top of the wall. There was a small gap between this section of the wall and the roof of the nearest building. Jimmy felt his heart stop when he realized what was about to happen.

_Dear Lord, the boy's going to jump!_

He watched in horror as Peter leapt over the three foot gap and slammed into the roof. For a moment, he didn't move, and Jimmy feared the worst. But five seconds later he was up and running, and Jimmy found himself looking at the boy with a newfound respect. He'd been on the streets long enough to know it took both cunning and courage to survive in this world—and this boy had both. But just as he was about to breathe a sigh of relief, Peter lost his footing.

Before he even had time to think, Jimmy reacted. Within seconds he was on the roof, running to the edge where Peter was literally hanging on for dear life, his feet dangling more than two stories off the ground. Jimmy got as close as he could without falling and stretched out a hand to the boy.

"Peter! Take my hand, Peter!"

The boy reached up, but his fingers stopped a few inches from Jimmy's hand, and he quickly withdrew, fearing that he'd lose his grip on the roof. "I can't! It's too far!"

Jimmy glanced back at the workhouse. They'd be sending out reinforcements soon, and if they caught him helping Peter escape, there was a good chance they'd turn him in to the police. If he ran now, he'd get away but…

"Yes you can! Come on, Peter! Hurry!"

Peter tried again, this time successfully latching onto the outstretched hand above him just as the first wave of security guards burst out from the gates. Jimmy pulled up the boy and started running.

They were coming. And they were coming fast. Jimmy didn't have time be held back by a stumbling six-year-old, but he needn't have worried. Peter was as nimble as a cat. Though, even had he been a bit clumsier, it wouldn't have mattered, for Jimmy found that he couldn't let go. They were in this together now, and they'd finish it together—one way or another.

Racing across the rooftops of London, leaping from building to building, one might have almost thought they were flying. It would have been quite fun, Jimmy later admitted, had it not been for the authorities on their tail!

Spotting a deserted back alleyway, Jimmy suddenly stopped, releasing Peter's hand and jumping nearly twenty feet to the ground. They were out of the danger zone now. He turned to look back at the boy. "Come on, Peter, jump!"

The boy hesitated, taking a step back.

Jimmy looked up. "Peter, do you trust me?"

The boy nodded slowly.

He walked closer, lifting up his arms. "I won't let you fall. I promise."

Taking a deep breath, Peter closed his eyes and stepped off the edge, landing with thud in Jimmy's arms before being lowered slowly to the ground. And suddenly everything that had happened hit his six-year-old mind with full force, and it was simply too much to take in. Tired and overwhelmed, the boy started crying, latching onto the closest source of comfort—which just so happened to be Jimmy's legs!

Though he'd never been too fond of children, Jimmy couldn't help but feel as though fate—or Someone or something bigger—had dropped the boy into his life for a reason. This child needed him, he realized. This boy, in whom he'd found a kindred spirit as wild and reckless as his own—this boy who was not his son yet who was every bit of what he'd want in one—_needed_ him. While it wouldn't right his wrongs, it was a good place to start. And although it would never bring Jenny back, it would make him feel as though she were a little closer, as if he hadn't quite lost her.

_She would have wanted this_.

He'd disappointed her one too many times in life. Now, after her death, he would not make that same mistake again. Getting down on his knees, Jimmy wrapped his arms protectively around the quaking child, his own heart still pounding from the chase.

"It's alright, Peter," he whispered. "It's alright. You're safe now."

NOTES

[1] I chose this date as a tribute to J.M. Barrie, the original author, who died June 19, 1937.

[2] As much as I wish I could claim this sentence as my own, it is very similar to another I've read before in a piece here on FF. Net. Unfortunately, I don't remember who the original author was, so I'm just gonna say it's not mine.

[3] Inspired by "The Last Living Piece" on deviantArt by kay-sama. It's a pretty awesome picture. Go check it out if you get the chance!


End file.
